PROLOGUE

The child wailed and beat its tiny, ineffective fists against the woman. He pushed and squirmed and pulled at her hair, so desperate to get away. She paid him no attention, she did not react.

He was not thinking, he could not think. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Everyone was dead. He had seen it happen, and although he did not understand death he knew it was something terrible. He had to get away. That was all that mattered.

He knew nothing of death, he had never seen it in his four years – but he sensed that this was not the way people were meant to die. He knew they were meant to get old and then fall asleep forever.

They were not meant to be mown down by loud, roaring machines. So many lives, just stopping all at once. That was so wrong. They were gone and he could not understand why.

The woman had come to their small village, he did not know how long ago. He could not tell the time, his mother had not taught him that yet. It did not feel like very long ago, but so much had changed.

The ugly woman with the red hair. She carried him now, towards the helicopter, away from the burning wreck he had known as his home.

And now she dared to sing to him, sing in a language he did not understand. He was only four, only just beginning to find his true voice.

Still he fought, through the tears that were streaming down his face. He kicked and screamed, hoping that someone would come and save him. In his heart he knew there was no one left, the men with the guns had seen to that.

She said something else now, and he tried to pull away. She was not singing, she was speaking to him. English. He knew some English, his mother had said it was important that he know the language of his father. The words, he did not understand them all, but they were horrible – terrible.

"This is all thanks to your father, little one," she said. Then they were at the helicopter and he could hear nothing but the whirling of the blades, he felt the air pushing at him, twisting his face.

Then she turned him away from the Helicopter. He saw his home, burning. The whole village was burning, he could hear screaming and more of those terrible shots ringing in the night. He cried harder, tears streaming down his face as he remembered his mother. Alive and singing sweetly one second, dead and broken, bleeding in the corner the next. So much horror, so much death.

Then before he knew it, he was on the helicopter. They were speaking around them in another language he had never heard. In a few moments they were in the air, heading away.

He sat, quiet now. He did not move, he did not scream. He just sat there, hoping that soon he would be dead too.

Tiger Tanaka, head of the Japanese Secret Service, stood in the centre of the island. His men were surveying the island, taking stock of the damage. Counting the bodies. He would rarely take a risk such as this, coming out in public – especially to an area where dozens of people had just been butchered.

But this was a special case. He had taken a great deal of interest in this island for the past four years. Ever since the death of Dr. Guntram Shatterhand and the disappearance of Taro Todoroki. He had watched over the child, ensured that he wanted for nothing. He felt he owed it to his friend. Now he feared he had failed him.

One of his men walked over to Tiger, signalling him as he approached. They had been searching the girl's home for hours now, sifting through the ash. And now they had clearly found something.

"One body," his agent told him, "Probably her. The fire has burned it to a crisp, but we are sure it is female."

"And is there any sign of the boy?" Tiger asked.

The agent shook his head. "Nowhere," he said.

Then suddenly a commotion, shouting. Tiger Turned to face the noise – his men had found a survivor. They were digging at the rubble furiously, desperate to save the man. Finally they hauled him out and dragged him to one of the few patched of unburned grass.

Then his men turned and began digging again, looking for more survivors. Ever hopeful, thought Tiger. It was a miracle they had found one.

A medic had made his way to the man, he was going to help. There was no time to waste. Tiger marched to where the man lay, stepping over bodies and ignoring the smell of cooked human flesh that filled his nostrils. He dismissed the medic who did not argue. He knew better than to cross Tiger Tanaka.

"What did you see?" he asked, "What happened here. You must tell me."

The man had fought for breath. Moments passed and Tigers patience grew thin, he was prepared to threaten the man when finally he spoke.

"A woman. Fat, red hair. She came with men. Guns… she took...," he flew into a fit of coughing, then his eyes closed at he was still. The medic rushed over and checked.

"He is alive. But we must treat him now," he said.

Tiger nodded and the medic set to work. Tiger thought over the words he had heard and he knew who the attacker was.

It could have been one hundred different women, going by the vague description. But somehow he just knew, it was as though he had always known this moment, this battle, would come.

Tiger sighed. He shouted to his men, someone must prepare the boat. Tiger had an unenviable task ahead of him. He knew his actions would begin a chain of events that could only lead to devastation, to pain and misery for many. But he had no option.

He had to contact The British Secret Service.

He had to tell James Bond that his son is missing.